


Jagi Jr.

by nicht_alles_Gold



Category: Hokuto no Ken | Fist of the North Star
Genre: Adoption, Father Figures, Gen, Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicht_alles_Gold/pseuds/nicht_alles_Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jagi adopts a kid. Unwillingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jagi Jr.

Two boys cowered before his motorcycle, hiding their faces from the dust that blew into them. Jagi revved his engine, grinning to himself.

“Which one… Right, or left?” he mused very loudly, aiming back and forth with the handlebars, “Which one’a you wants to see the other die, ehh?!”

One of them (left) stood up, trembling, and spread his arms protectively. The other (right), stood as well, then spun on a bare foot and dashed away. His brother noticed and cried out, shocked at the betrayal, and stood limply as Jagi pointed toward the fleeing boy. “Get ‘im!” he roared, a few of his men running after, clubs drawn, “Kenshiro doesn’t let anyone get away!”

He put the kickstand down, got off his bike, and lumbered to the boy who was still standing there. Lifting him by his shirt with one hand, Jagi held him up to his face, inspecting his tears. “I’ll give you a reason to cry!” he laughed, the sounds of metal whacking flesh coming around the corner, “Say my name, maggot!”

“I… I…” the boy sniffled, “I can’t believe my brother ran away! I was trying to help him!”

Jagi frowned, and shook him back and forth. “I said say my name!” He emphasized his point by holding up his shotgun to the kid’s belly, prodding him a few times. It had to be threatening.

“I promised my father I’d protect my younger brother!” the kid wailed, rubbing his eyes. It was so… so pathetic. A noble older brother protecting his stupid, young, stupid, bastard of a sibling. Jagi’s finger rubbed at the trigger (the shotgun’s mechanics were so fucked it really required effort to use, or the boy might’ve been in pieces), his hand tightening on his shirt. Maybe he could just throw him on the ground and squash him? That motorcycle-running-over idea had been fun, he could go back to that?

“Ja-I, I mean Kenshiro!” one of his subordinates said, the spikes on his club newly red as he approached, “Want us to-”

“Did I ask for your help, asshole!?” Jagi said, turning the shotgun toward him idly and… shooting him full of lead (it was also fucked in that sometimes it went off for no reason). His other men backed off, one of them stumbling to the ground, like he’d done it on purpose. Cowards! It pissed him off even more when people stared at him.

“Ughhh! Now I’m not in the mood!” he growled, tossing the kid aside, his little body spraying up sand, “Let’s go!” He looked back over his shoulder at the town they were about to leave, a few bodies spread out, a few ruined shacks sending clouds of smoke into the sky, and gestured toward the house next to them, the one the boys had been dragged out of. “Burn this one down, but check it for supplies first, dumbasses!” he added the last part quickly, as several of the men had been quickly approaching with their matches, eager to get started.

Then he sped away, his other troops on motorcycles along with him, whooping and waving their weapons around.

 

A few nights later, one of the men who had been on watch approached him at their camp (they were really shitty at making anything proper, so there was one huge bonfire and an awful lot of gas cans way too close, but Jagi didn’t really give a fuck). “There’s some kid sneaking around, followin’ us, boss,” he said, “We’re tryin’ to catch him but he’s kinda fast, should we just shoot him?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jagi said, waving his hand dismissively, “Catch him and we can have a little more fun.” If it wasn’t pussy or someone worth destroying, he didn’t care.

But apparently one of his men was more spry than he thought, and they came back with a squirming child held by his hair. Jagi squinted at him, trying to… oh.

“Put ‘im down,” he ordered, and the kid stood where he was placed, staring at Jagi… in some way he didn’t really understand, so he assumed it was sadness or some shit. “Alriiight,” he grumbled, leveling that same tricky shotgun at the kid’s head (a few of his guys backed off), “What’d’you want, kid? You have five seconds!”

The kid didn’t even hesitate. “You saved me!” Didn’t kill, Jagi reworded in his head, regretfully. “I wanna go with you!”

The nearer troops chuckled to themselves, some in a worryingly fatherly, “boys will be boys” way. Jagi was about to say something mean and horrible before shooting the little bastard, but then… he imagined the possibilities. An army of children surrounding his troops, shielding them from harm. Strapping a few of them with bombs and sending them into a village to destroy gates and homes. Holding women’s babies captive unless they’d give some of his men a good time. Yeah, this could work.

“Alright, runt!” he laughed, surprising everyone within earshot when he lowered the gun, “It’s a deal! But screw up once, and—boom!”

He moved the gun like he was firing… and it did, scattering shot into the camp, more than one man wailing out as he was struck. “Fuck!” Jagi groaned.

 

Slowly, slowly, the sights aligned with the water tower standing in the middle of the dusty town, and Jagi bit his tongue lightly in focus. This would be a tough strike, but once he brought it down—

“What’re you doing?” came a chirpy little voice behind him. Jagi flinched, and looked back into the sights. It was off.

“I’m shooting shit, alright!?” he snarled, pushing the kid a little with his leg, to shoo him away, “Now shut it or I’ll be pointing this thing at you.”

He adjusted the rocket launcher on his shoulder, aiming again—

“Ja-fuck, Kenshiro, when’re we—?”

“SHUT UP!”

He flexed his finger a little too far. The missile sang into the air, merrily aiming itself for a hill just on the other side of town before exploding, sending little bits of dirt everywhere… but hurting and killing and maiming, he guessed, were on the low side. He tossed the useless launcher to the side, whirling to grab his unfortunate subordinate by the throat, and lifted him into the air, the other man wriggling in his grip. “Bastarrrrd!” he hissed, pointing the fingers of his other hand, and jabbing them into his chest.

He dropped him, and the thug twitched around, writhed, then proceeded to explode into ribbons of blood and entraily goodness. A good chunk of his head was leftover, and Jagi stomped on it, crunching his skull and brains into mush.

Suddenly the kid was standing there, looking down at it. “Don’t touch it,” Jagi warned, without really thinking, quickly adding in a sulky, “dumbshit.”

“Was that your friend?” the kid asked, looking infuriatingly earnest.

“Fuck no,” Jagi spat. Did he look like the kind of guy who had friends?

“Am I your friend?” Those eyes pissed him off.

“NO.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like ya at all. You’re just some annoyin’ little shit that’s not even worth killin’.”

“Why?”

Seriously, were all kids this annoying? Why hadn’t he just tossed him into a pit and buried him there? “Why what?”

“Why am I annoying?”

“By existin’ you’re annoying!”

The kid fell silent. Maybe he was sad or something but Jagi didn’t give a shit, and turned back to the town where… uh-oh. He could see men assembling from here, spears in hand. Of course, they had nothing on HIS gang but, um… this town could fuck itself. It wasn’t that great. They probably didn’t even have anything worth burning.

“C’mon,” Jagi growled, trotting back toward where his men were assembled, to beat a hasty retreat.

 

“And…” his mohawked soldier said, face lit by the campfire they’d set up after that swift trek back across the desert to some empty building, “Ta-daaa.”

He stepped aside with a flourish that seemed incredibly inappropriate for someone who looked like that, revealing the kid, dressed up incredibly appropriately. He had little baby shoulder pads with spikes, a little leather jacket, leather pants and steel-toed boots, with a few chains and things scattered over the whole outfit. The kid even turned around, someone had embroidered a skull on the back. It was smiling.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jagi scowled, hand reaching up to his head like he needed to rub his temples before the helmet got in the way, “Are you fucking. Kidding. C’mere, kid.”

Whoever had made that outfit was getting a beating, for sure. What were they, a gang of thugs or a bunch of girls in a sewing circle? Jagi guessed it was that mohawk guy, because he looked disappointed as hell at Jagi’s reaction. He’d look much worse with a gun-whipped broken nose.

The kid scampered forward, beaming in pride. “Aren’t these cool! I look just like you!”

Jagi’s eyes narrowed. Of course he was the greatest, but this kid was making him want to deny that fact, and if kids weren’t all retarded, he’d think this was some kind of trick to get him to look like an asshole. He grabbed the kid’s new little jacket, and pulled him up close. “Take a good look and see if you wanna look like me!” he roared, his free hand starting to lift up his helmet. His men began to scatter, a few of them yelping before they’d even seen, and two curious newbies staying as onlookers (they’d regret that soon).

He pulled it off, revealing his cracked, bulging skull in all its sick glory. One of the men who’d stayed retched, the other gasped and fell backward with a whimper. “Get a good look, eh, kid?!” he shouted, shaking him a little.

“Are you a machine!?” was his only response. No horror, nothing negative, just a weird sort of charming adoration in those deep brown eyes. Jagi didn’t even want to shake him anymore (even though it was kind of fun), and just dropped him, pulling the helmet back over his head.

“All you fuckers get back here!” he yelled, and they began to reemerge from behind their motorcycles and dark corners of the gutted structure. “The kid can stay, alright? But I better not catch one of you bein’… fuckin’ fatherly, got it!?”

“Yes, Kenshiro, sir!” they chorused back. Great, the kid had a whole army of daddies…

 

The barrel of his gun was practically shoved up the villager’s nose, and the pathetic man whimpered and whined that it hurt. “Say my name,” Jagi commanded, and a few tears sprouted from his victim’s eyes.

“I-I-I-I don’t know, I’m sorry!” he stuttered, trying to pull away, “I’m sorry, please don’t kill me, I have a family!”

“I don’t give a shit about your family!” Jagi spat into his face, “And I’ll give you one chance to remember my name. It’s Ken—” he slid the gun down his face “—shi—” the gun continued down his chest “—ro—” and he shot the guy in the foot… well, there wasn’t much foot left now. He fell to the floor and Jagi gave him a kick for good measure, then another. “C’mon, get up, go tell your little village all about us because… we’re coming to kill all of ya! Ya-ha!” The man rolled as he was kicked, finally getting to his foot and sort of stubby, nasty remains of the other, and hobbled as well as he could, stumbling often. Jagi watched. Huh, he took a little too much of that foot off, the guy probably wouldn’t make it back. Oh well. He didn’t REALLY want to give the village warning, just in case they had a militia.

“Why do you want everyone to know your name?” the kid asked (he’d been silently crouched behind the motorcycle as per Jagi’s instructions).

“Eh? Because I want them to fear it!” He paused for a moment. “You can come out, dumb shit…” The kid popped his head up and then trotted over. “Y’see, eventually everyone will hate the name Kenshiro, and then all we have to do is show up and bam-! Instant fucking reputation, people will flee their houses, cower before us, all that shit, ‘cause they know Kenshiro means they’ll get killed.” Funnily, this was almost the exact same way he’d explained this concept to his men.

“Okay.” The kid nodded, but then frowned. “But what if someone else was named that, wouldn’t people hate them too?”

Jagi waved his hand. “Don’t matter to me.”

“Well, um…” the kid looked down, shuffled his foot in the dust, “I kinda wish that was my name cause it sounds really strong and cool, but I don’t want people to hate me.”

“Sure you do! It’s… hey, what’s your name anyway, kid?” Jagi had never bothered to ask. Not that he cared. He was just curious, so he didn’t have to call him “kid” and “you” and “dumbshit” all the time.

“My name’s, um, Jagi,” the kid muttered, “It’s not as cool as yours.”

Jagi licked his lips, and straightened his posture. “No, that’s a good name,” was what he came up with and gruffly said, “It’s better than Kenshiro. Let’s go.” He put his leg over the bike, and the kid clambered up behind him, holding his waist tightly. So THAT was why some of his solders had been referring to the kid as Jagi Jr.

He looked up, and saw that the man he’d de-footed was still stumbling his way along, and in fact had made pretty decent distance. He thought about doing some moving target practice, or teaching the kid how to shoot but eh… going back to camp was a good idea as any.


End file.
